


Absolution

by KPOPTrashLord-007 (TrashLord_007)



Category: K-pop, SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Catholic Imagery, Corruption, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Degradation, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Filthy, POV Second Person, Priest Kink, Reader-Insert, Religion Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Roman Catholicism, Smut, priest!joshua
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28599537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashLord_007/pseuds/KPOPTrashLord-007
Summary: "Who am I if not a sinner, Father?"You've been chasing after a man you cannot have for six months. Father Joshua, the priest at your local church, is gentle. He's beautiful. He's everything you want to dig your teeth into. It's a game to you and you play without remorse, teasing and tempting your priest while hoping that this will be the time he cracks.Some things are best left as fantasies.~~~~~Priest!Joshua x Promiscuous!Reader
Relationships: Hong Jisoo | Joshua/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> If we're fucking a priest, fucking in a church, or getting fucked by a demon in priest's clothing, you bet your ass we're listening to Chase Atlantic.
> 
> "Request", after I asked someone else to come thirst over priest!Joshua with me;;   
> PLEASE PLEASE PLEEEEEAAASSEEEE WRITE PRIEST JOSHUA SMUT
> 
> Oh, and for the Carats that were concerned:  
>  **Joshua Hong Do Not Interact**
> 
>  **Warnings;;**  
>  Smut. Some degradation. Rough sex. Pretty kinky maybe.  
> Use of religion in all the wrong ways - sinners only, pls.   
> Y/N's dialogue… as a Christian, I couldn't even say it out loud lolol.

A bite of the lip. 

A subtle wink. 

A touch that lingers too long. 

A peek of tongue before you roll the communion wafer into your mouth. 

The way your throat bobs as you gulp the wine down. 

The purr in your voice when you address him as 'Father'. 

You drop to your knees and bow your head to receive his blessing. It never fails to stir the crowd. A wave of disapproval courses through the small church as you await his touch. He, however, is used to this - from you at least. 

He's a gentle man, the kind of man that feeds stray kittens and volunteers not just because it's the priestly thing to do but because he wants to. His voice is soft, enticing, as is his hand that rests on your temple. There's warmth surging from his touch and you lean closer, allowing his large palm to cradle your forehead.

It's not enough. 

Staring at his polished black shoes just isn't enough. You sneak a glance upward with slow precision to better observe his body. It's hidden behind his alb and chasuble, garments you find yourself hating more and more with every passing day. Your position on the floor offers a rare view and you linger on his bulging, toned arms as they peek through from under his holy vestments. 

He's beautiful. No matter the angle, he's beautiful. 

He's delicate and angelic and you've never wanted anyone more than you want Father Joshua. 

It's been six long months of chase but the end goal is in sight. There's no denying the chemistry between you both, the raw _tension_. Priest or not, he is still a man. 

Your position change, albeit small, catches his attention. Perhaps he caught your searing gaze from the corner of his eye, or perhaps the rush of blood to your forehead burned a little too hot. His eyes flicker down to your clenching thighs before roaming upward to your tongue. It's slow and sensual as it runs along your upper lip, but above all else it's welcoming, practically _begging_.

From the back, you appear legit. In the eyes of the flock, you're praying as one is expected to. With your hands raised in silent devotion and a facade of innocence directed to the rest of the congregation, you toy with your priest. 

Words fall from his lips but you don't listen. It's nothing you haven't heard before and you'd sooner plan than get lost in his melodic voice. Time is ticking now. He's preparing for the finale, for the last cross and 'amen'. You'll be sent on your way and he'll continue the service in the ordained fashion, your interruption to be forgotten before you're even seated. 

You've come too far not to leave a lasting impression. Before you're expected to return to your pew, the one you always have to yourself near the back because you're new in a small town that finds you too bold and brazen, you'll make your move. God be damned, it'll be grander than anything you've put your sweet priest through within these hallowed grounds before.

His comforting touch departs from your forehead and your skin is much cooler, almost _cold_ now. You watch as his thumb dips into the holy water, the approaching end of his blessing evident in the way his words slow and his tone deepens just a fraction. 

Exaggerating a sigh you know he won't miss, not in the otherwise silent church, you wait for his eyes to snap to yours, to lock onto you before you spring your trap. His eyes are such a soft brown, you fear you'll melt within his curious gaze. 

He's always curious. 

No matter how many times you play with him, he allows himself to fall for your tricks. Now is no exception. He doesn't break away from your line of sight nor does he falter, his actions as clear and concise as his carrying voice. 

His thumb, wet and sanctified, meets your forehead and you can feel it in your bones: unspeakable, undeniable, unquenchable sexual desire.

"In the name of the Father-"

It's common to see those deep in prayer bring their hands close to their faces, to touch their trembling hands to their quivering lips as they follow along with the priest's blessing.

"-the Son-"

It's less common to see those same hand's fingers moisten with the heaving pants of the plump lips that cushion them, pedicured nails leaving crescent indents along the gummy underside of a smirk. 

"and the Holy Spirit-"

It's uncommon to see fingers break free from their prayer formation in order to slip knuckle-deep into the mouth of a _devoted_ member of the church, saliva dribbling free past the pink tease of tongue that wraps around the soaked appendages. 

"A- Ah…"

And it's quite rare to see Father Joshua hesitate. 

"Amen!" you shout, drowning his holy sentiment out with wanton desperation before he has a chance to voice it.

Lust is heavier in the air between you and your priest than the overwhelming silence of the shocked crowd as you throw your whole body to the ground at his feet in mock gratitude. With a discreet rub of your cheek against his pant leg to clear your face of the wetness your abrupt deepthroating left behind, you rise back to a seated position and hug your sides. 

"I can feel it so deep inside me, Father - your blessing has hit every single sacred spot within. I've been absolved of sin by your holy touch and I am reborn, pure and virtuous, like the Virgin Mother."

Time resumes as murmurs fill the room. They're confused and disgusted and agreeable and some are even filthy; everyone has their own opinion. They don't matter to you, however. Not when your priest can't seem to articulate words before you, stunned into stillness. It isn't until you wink that his widened eyes soften and he realises you're up to your usual antics.

"I'm happy to hear it," he laughs, brushing your outburst off while offering his hand. You take it, rising to your feet and bowing your head once more as a teenaged member of the church shouts his own 'amen!'.

Your priest's scent dissipates the further you retreat back to your seat and it's a crime, really. He smells like the roses he tends in the church's front garden and you find it to be just another of his irresistible charms. Armed with the face of an angel, heaven's sweetest aroma, and a touch so blessed you actually considered becoming devout, Father Joshua was the epitome of perfection. 

You can't help but wonder what he tastes like.

Would he taste celestial?

Or would he perhaps taste devilish, with a mixture of his broken vows and your tainted sins lingering on his lips? 

Taking your seat, you ignore the hushed whispers and pointed glances shot in your direction. Leading with a good example, you bow your head for what feels like the hundredth time and pretend to pray. 

It's the guilt that eats away at them, forcing them to avert their attention inward to their own pathetic issues. They can't have the promiscuous newcomer look better than them in the eyes of God, after all. 

When you're confident the spotlight is no longer illuminating your every move, you drop the act and search for your priest. He hasn't moved far. His long fingers turn a few pages of his Holy Bible, scanning through a passage here and there while he gives the room time to finish their individual prayers. 

Like a spider within its burrow, you wait. You wait for the opportune moment to strike, for the strings of your web to be tugged. It comes when he closes the book and stands taller, rolling his neck to ease the tension before observing the room. Most are awaiting his final blessing to mark the end of the service, their eyes bright and their souls uplifted. 

He locks his gaze with yours. 

It's a bad habit of his, truly. He can't seem to help himself. Curiosity and the cat and all that, but he was running out of lives and running out of willpower. You can tell he's reaching his end when he doesn't break your line of sight. Even after you lean back with a lazy smile and you rest your hand atop your breasts, pressing down and down until you're grasping your inner thigh and trembling, he watches. You doubt he can see anything, not from this distance, but it runs deeper than mere actions. 

Your aura screams temptation. 

You're begging to be fucked and he just watches, he just observes. 

The rest of the service speeds by in a blur. There's blessings abound and soon everyone stands for the last time, absorbing your priest's words and promising to spread the Lord's good will. Pew after pew empties, the congregation disappearing out into the blinding early morning sun. 

When the room is all but clear, you approach your priest. He knows what's coming. It's a little game you two play so often that he doesn't even lift his head to look at you. 

"Father. Will you be accepting confession tonight?"

"You act like we don't have this conversation every Sunday."

"I know, but I have so much to absolve. Could you make an exception for one of your most devoted?"

With a sigh, he nods before gesturing for the door, not bothering to look up from the candles he's lighting. "Of course. I know how busy you are. Come by around six… thirty. Afternoon service should be finished by then."

"Thank you, _Father_."

A hesitant, stiff nod.

A glance too low to pass as appropriate.

A tinge of pink on soft cheeks. 

A cough to clear lascivious thoughts.

The way he refuses to look at you head-on after falling too deep into your games.

The remorse in his murmurs as he prays, just the thought of sinning enough to require repentance. 

Without a doubt, Father Joshua is delicious right down to the core.

Satisfied knowing your visage is engraved deep within his mind, you depart into the sun-basked town. The gentle breeze is cool and you've plenty of time to kill before you postpone your appointment with your priest. Trees rustle above and squirrels skitter about. If you wait until four-thirty, you'll be able to remind him of your presence in time for his next service. Perhaps you'll flitter through his mind throughout, the memory of your unholy teasing still fresh. 

Setting an alarm, you walk home with a skip in your step and a tune on your lips. 

By the time four-thirty rolls around, you're tearing your closet apart. Your outfit tonight will be instrumental to your plan. It isn't an easy choice and you can't fuck it up. If you come in too strong, he'll pull away, and yet you also need him wanting more. 

"Black is out of the question," you muse, pushing several dresses down the hanging bar with a groan before stopping, your fingers entwining around white lace. It's a short summer dress, cute and airy, that you've always found a bit too innocent for your taste yet somehow too racy to take to church. 

Until now.

You hear your priest pick up the call, his sweet voice filling your room through the speakerphone resting on your pillow. He's formal and professional in his greeting and you giggle. Had he been anyone else, you'd feel embarrassed. Father Joshua, however, puts you at ease. 

"Father! You picked up."

"And why might you be calling?"

There's a pout in your voice when you respond, tossing the dress onto the bed near your phone, "My work is taking me much longer than I anticipated. Could we postpone my confession?"

"I can't do-"

" _Please_ Father," you beg, exaggerating the candy-like lilt in your tone. "I've been such a bad girl this week, I really must get this off my chest."

An audible gulp precedes silence and you pause your hunt, turning your back on your lingerie drawer to check if the call dropped.

"Fath-"

"I'm leaving at eight so please find time to come before then."

"I'll come as you wish, Father."

You can't stop the laugh that bubbles forth once he hangs up. 

With more time to kill, you treat yourself to a long soak in the tub, imagining it to be your priest's fingers rather than your own plunging deep inside your heat. 

Tick.

Tick.

Tock. 

There's only five minutes left until eight. 

Few cars grace the streets and only a single car remains on the church's lot. Most of the lights are out within the building with more flickering off as Joshua starts to lock up. You stretch your back before jogging up to the church doors, pausing to count the seconds left before he's sure to be in the right wing's hallway. 

Timing is key here. 

Once your countdown reaches zero, you fling the doors open, making a show out of it so the commotion alerts Joshua of your arrival. You don't slow, using your building energy to stride to the altar. As he rounds the corner, a scowl forming on his lips, you collapse to your knees before the statue of Jesus Christ. 

The timing is perfect. 

You fire off a quick prayer just loud enough for him to hear. He stands behind you, leaning on a pew as he waits for you to finish your private message to God. Crossing yourself, you raise your hands to your lips. It's reminiscent of your action hours prior, save for the drooling and near-choking. You hear him shuffle and you know he too is thinking of the incident. 

"You're late."

"I'm sorry, Father."

"Are you?"

"Not really," you say, swivelling on your knees to face him, a smirk playing on your lips. "But you'll forgive me anyway, won't you, _Father_?"

"Come on, then. Let's absolve you of these sins that plague you."

He abandons the pew's support and straightens his posture. The cuffs of his shirt are unbuttoned, hanging loose around his wrists. It's in this moment that you realise he's devoid of his vestments, stripped down to a simple black dress shirt. 

A step closer to the confessional booth is a step closer to you. He invades your personal space, stopping to stare down at you before gesturing toward the small, wooden box. You can smell roses once more and you find yourself heating up, his scent overwhelming the last rational part of your mind. 

"Who am I if not a sinner, Father?"

The material is smoother than you expect but you scrunch it between your fingers nonetheless, your hand latching onto the same pant leg you used earlier to wipe your dirtied cheek. Your tugs are both imperceptible and futile. His belt won't allow the pants to fall, holding firm just as he does. 

"Am I correct in my assumption that you didn't come to confess?"

"I never said I would."

"And what of all these sins you possess?"

"I need you to absolve them, Father."

"But not through confession?"

Shaking your head, you slide your hand upward along his thigh, relishing in how his muscles tense beneath your touch. You don't stop until your fingers meet cold metal. With experience born from perpetual sin, you make quick work of his belt and toss it aside. 

He's emotionless. Like a blank slate, you can't read him. It's unnerving and you falter, unsure if you should continue. While you had wanted to get this far, to get _further_ than this, you hadn't expected it to be easy. You thought he'd blush and scold you, maybe even brandish his rosary at you, and yet here you were seconds away from taking him deep in your throat. 

"Father, are you not an instrument of God? Can I not just use you to absolve myself?" The corners of his lips twitch. "You can bless me with your… holy touch, Father."

"Is that so?"

"Absolve me, Father. Absolve me in any way you see fit."

Joshua is a gentle man and an even gentler priest. He's the type to smile when you tell a joke, no matter how bad it is, because he believes that laughter can cure our darkest ailments. Yet somehow the low chuckle he pairs with his stunning, bright smile doesn't quite feel gentle. 

Cupping your chin within his large palm, he traces his nails along your burning cheek as he speaks, his voice soft and calm, "I could strip you down and cleanse you of your sins and yet a whore would still remain."

Taken aback, you scoff. You've never found the term offensive until now. Sure, the shoe fits and you've heard it plenty of times from others, even within this very church, but coming from his lips it feels like a lashing. Slapping his hand away, you're quick to stand and face him. 

"Well, _Father_ , last I checked a whore is still one of His creations and therefore worthy of absolution."

He quirks his eyebrow. "Of course. Should I take you in the confessional booth?"

"I don't want to go to the God damn con-"

The sting of his hand frees your mind of all other thoughts. His slap is much harsher than yours had been and you feel tears well within a second of the impact. From experience you know your skin will reflect his touch, colour blooming outward like a firework. Your fingertips burn as you inspect your cheek. It's tender and raw and it sends a pulse of heat straight to your core. 

"Using the Lord's name in vain? If you keep this up, we'll be at it all night."

"Forgive me, Father," you grate through clenched teeth, biting back your initial, more offensive remark.

"It's not up to me. You have to prove you truly wish to atone."

"And how might I do that?"

"It will be quite tedious, I'm not sure you can handle it."

"I can handle it."

He's on you before you have a chance to blink. Deft fingers tug at your zipper, loosening your dress for you to shimmy out of while his mouth devours your surprised gasp. He tastes better than you imagined, like strawberries and vanilla cake. His hands don't rest - they're pulling your hair and they're groping your breasts and they're choking your throat. 

When you find yourself finding a rhythm and catching up to his fervent, hungry pace, he throws you back through a loop. He uses his tight grip on your throat to turn you around, to put you on display before God and his Son on the cross. You shiver, unable to avoid His gaze, to avoid His judgement. Closer he pushes you toward the looming statue, only stopping once your hands find purchase on the holy water font.

Joshua doesn't bother to remove your lingerie, instead choosing to push your thong to the side before running his fingers along your cunt. He teases, circling your clit with lazy strokes. With the ghost of a touch, he inches down and lingers but never delivers anything more than a caress. The anticipation of being filled proper gnaws at you. 

You're wet. You know you're already soaking wet. You've been ready for him since the moment you first laid eyes on him this morning. On top of the constant arousal you felt in his presence, your quick finger-fuck in the tub had you prepped and raring to go again. 

"Look at yourself, whore."

There's no stopping the yelp that breaks free from your trembling lips. Strong hands yank your hips back, forcing your top half to fall forward. Your initial hold on the font was to maintain your balance; now you grasp the stone to prevent your descent into the holy water. 

His cock presses against your ass and you moan, already too sensitive and quivering beneath him in desperation. He isn't fully hard but already his length is nothing to scoff at, something you want to curse him for. It's a cruel joke to waste his life away inside this tiny church. You hate him for it. 

"Stop drooling all over yourself like a bitch in heat and look."

Repressing an eyeroll, you focus on the font once more. The water is clear and still. Your reflection greets you and you grimace. He's made a mess of you without needing to touch you, save for a tease here and there. You'd feel embarrassed if you had any shame. 

"What am I looking at exactly, Father?"

"Look at your pitiful state. You're unworthy of His light," he whispers into your ear and it tingles, an involuntary shiver tearing down your spine as he tilts your head a few degrees before he continues, "Now watch me lift you from perdition."

The second your eyes lock through the water's reflection, he plunges a finger deep into your cunt. You moan, the sound loud enough to desecrate. Unlike the man you thought him to be, he isn't gentle. He's fast and rough, stretching your walls with so much ease that he inserts a second finger without need for a warning. 

Sweat trickles down your forehead and drips into the font. It creates a small splash that ripples across the basin. He makes an off-handed comment about it, something about being dirty, but it's lost on you. You're too close to ecstasy. After such a long chase, you knew it wouldn't take much. 

You ignore everything else and focus on the pleasure. It's building quicker now that he's rubbing tight circles on your clit. You don't dare to break eye contact, not when he's looking for any reason to punish you. The lewd sounds of your sin, originating from both your nonstop moans and the squelching of your sopping cunt, echo within the church walls. 

The dam breaks after a particularly skilled curl of the fingers, stars blinding your vision and tears forming in your eyes. You don't expect him to stop - that would be too easy - and you prepare yourself for the overstimulation but it doesn't come. His fingers withdraw the second you've ridden the last wave of your orgasm. 

Despite the dull ache in your jaw born from both his slap and your inability to keep your lips sealed for even a second once he had you bent over, you open your mouth to make a throwaway remark when you're silenced by a flood of water. 

With an iron grip on your skull, he dips your face into the font and holds you there, ignoring your increasing struggles against him the longer you remain submerged. You had air in your lungs still and you knew he wouldn't hurt you but a holy bath was the last thing you wanted after cumming on your priest's fingers. 

He lifts you free of the warm water by your hair. Searing questions tumble off the same tongue that had trailed a droplet of (un)holy water along your pulse point seconds prior. "Does it burn? Tell me, whore, does this cleanse you?"

"It isn't enough, Father, I need more! More!" You babble, both scared and excited at the prospect of him escalating. 

Your enthusiasm fuels him. There's a fire within him that can't be extinguished easily, a fire that seeks to consume you both with certain damnation. He steps aside and disappears into a corner for a brief second and you wonder what compelled him to do so. Your curiosity is satisfied the second you hear the clinking of his belt, now retrieved and within his possession. 

His features are angelic and he glows, warmth radiating through his smile as he returns to you, discarding his clerical collar along the way. 

"Then get on your knees and pray to me."

**Author's Note:**

> So much for keeping it short. 
> 
> My favourite line was:   
> "I could strip you down and cleanse you of your sins and yet a whore would still remain."


End file.
